She slaps me across the face, and my head jerks to the side.
But I just laugh.
Of course, I’m worried. He’s been out of work and hasn’t been home, but I’m not taking a lecture from her. She’s used him, and I’ve had enough of her bullshit.
“That’s the reason you don’t let him come work for me, isn’t it?” I ask, not backing down. “Because in exchange, I was going to pay his bills and give him a stipend to make sure you didn’t get your hands on his whole damn salary. You only care about him when he comes bearing cash.” I gather up my shit and walk for the door, yanking it open. “You know who I’m really jealous of? All the men who got away before you trapped them with a kid. I’m not sorry I had Cole, but I am sorry it was with you. Get out.”
I’m proud I kept my voice down and was able to muster some control, but I’m seething inside. She comes into my house, accusing me of being a bad parent, and then hits me. She’s not my wife and never has been. I have to put up with her, but not with everything.
She stands there, looking almost amused, and finally walks up to me. “Yes,” she says, about to leave but turns and taunts me over her shoulder, “because your house is the only area of your life you can get me out of.”
And then her eyes flash up my stairs and back to me, a sick smirk playing on her lips.
She walks out, and I remain still, everything I felt in my bedroom minutes ago completely gone. Cole is spiraling, and he needs me now more than ever.
And Lindsay knows about Jordan. She may not know anything for sure, but her suspicions will be enough.
She’ll tear Jordan apart. There’s no way I’m putting her through that.
I just wish I could’ve had her for more than seven hours.
Jordan
I press the stones onto the step with my pick and grab the glue, squeezing it into the crevice to fasten the pieces to the model. I feel an urge to glance at the clock on the microwave again, but I refrain, knowing it hasn’t been more than two minutes since the last time I checked.
It’s after six, and Pike is late. He’s hardly ever late.
As the minutes go by, though, I feel my temper rise, because he hasn’t called, either, and he specifically asked me to be home. This isn’t like him, but it’s damn-well like every other guy I’ve known. I’m that girl they can treat like garbage and make wait, because I take it.
For a while, anyway.
The pizza I ordered, half pepperoni and half taco, was delivered an hour ago and is keeping warm in the oven, while my salad is in the fridge, staying chilled. The Lost Boys, continuing our 80’s horror movie marathon, is on the TV, ready to play, and I’m alone.
Again.
Okay. He could be in the middle of something, still at work. Understandable, and I’m an adult. I don’t need my hand held. He could’ve also been in an accident, but that’s extreme, and I don’t want to be that girl who calls, either. He’ll think I’m…getting attached or something.
I glue the glass balls onto the bed of what will soon be the stream, letting the minutes tick away his chances as I sit there, wait, and get angrier.
The day has been so great. I woke up sore but hardly even noticing, because the memories of last night had me blushing constantly. He was not out of practice at all, and I couldn’t stop smiling as I cleaned up the broken lamp and fixed the nightstand again.
And cleaned the remnants of the A&W cup out of the washing machine from when I dumped the ice cream float in it last night. Thank God he didn’t find out about that or he’d change his opinion on whether or not I’m an adult.
After tidying up the house, I really didn’t want to wash off his smell, but I desperately needed a shower. I cleaned myself up, and then I called Cam and borrowed her car to go get my paycheck at Grounders and run a few errands. I got sideways looks from my sister and Shel, both prob
ably wondering why I’m practically fucking skipping around everywhere, but I didn’t care.
Because in a few hours, his eyes were going to be on me again, and I really love when his eyes are on me. Maybe we’d go swimming tonight or throw some pillows and blankets into the back of the truck to go make-out somewhere. Or maybe I’d pick a fight, so he’d bend me over the kitchen table for another spanking.
Stupid. Fantasies and expectations that never measure up in reality. I should know better. Here I am, sitting here waiting for whenever he happens to show up, ready to be at his beck and call.
After a while, I pick up my phone again, checking to see if I have any messages.
Still nothing.
I look at the time, and it’s nearly seven now. Two hours late.
He’d know I was expecting him. If he didn’t call, then maybe something did happen.